


It's Not Fair

by CreamMoon



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Humor, gimli/legolas if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:03:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreamMoon/pseuds/CreamMoon
Summary: Gimli's poetry stylings prompt a series of events that are awkward for everyone.





	It's Not Fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeHeerKonijn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/gifts).



> DHK basically prompted this but wow just who would've believed I'd write a LotR fanfic after 2001. Shoutout to all the other 12 year olds who were writing Aragon/Legolas at the time, you were my people.

They make their way silently up the stairs together, maintaining their aloof and seemingly unendingly serene nature until they get through the doors to their private chambers. With the doors closed and locked behind them all bets were off.

Celeborn collapsed onto their fainting sofa with a little sob, the drama of his reaction being undercut only by the fact that he had not also chosen to throw the back of his hand up against his forehead when he fell upon it. Galadriel smiled kindly down at her husband, following him down to sit beside him, rubbing his back soothingly.

“It’s not fair...”

“Now, now, Cele... You are a true beauty. Truly your countenance is so handsome that words fail even the most esteemed poets.”

“Not the likes of dwarven poets if we are so well matched!” Celeborn cried, wiping at his eyes as jealous tears poured down his cheeks. His wife barely withheld a giggle at the response. It had been a long time since he’d reacted so poorly to their game.

Gimli, the most handsome dwarven prince they’d seen in some time, had chosen to favor Galadriel with impromptu poetics that had left both rulers of Lothlórien gobsmacked. Yet again she had beaten Celeborn without even having to try, the starry eyed little fire hair really laying it on thick.

“Your hair is made from starlight, your eyes-“

“I’m sorry, are you a dwarven poet?” Celeborn cut in, pouting mightily as he looked back over his shoulder at his wife. “No, I think not what with the dull stylings and the distressing lack of beard.”

Galadriel couldn’t help but break down laughing with that final straw, collapsing against Celeborn’s shoulder and giggling her head off. “Even your Lady Wife may not soothe you???”

“No!” He cried, throwing up his hands. “Only the saccharine utterances of that tiny peep toad might give me peace of mind!”

The mental image that brought only made her laughter intensify, Celeborn complaining at her all the while for her insufferable behavior.

***

Gimli doesn’t quite understand the situation he’s found himself in, standing in Lord Celeborn’s home while the elf in question lounges with a delicate wine glass in hand.

It seemed this fabled Prince of Doriath was... dressed up? Though it was difficult for Gimli to parse, as elven fashion never had made sense to him. Most he’d met seemed to accentuate all the wrong features, and this time seemed no different to him in that. Celeborn’s robes did nothing for what the Prince could make out of his figure, creating a stretched out sort of look that reminded him of metal shaping, and not in a sexy way.

At least his hair was done up nice, the silvery strands thrown handsomely over one shoulder, though even that looked fairly staged.

“You asked me here, Your Grace?” Gimli finally asked, unnerved far too much by the extended quiet. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I suppose so.” Celeborn replied vaguely, turning his gaze on his glass to watch as he swirled the wine around. “By the poetry you concocted for my wife it seems you are a master balladeer...”

Gimli promptly broke out in sweat. He’d been wondering if his dire case of loose lips had brought him here.

“Have you no words, Master Dwarf? Does my countenance not grace your mind with sweet and winding epithets?”

At that his brain scrambled like a rat with its tail caught beneath the toe of a boot, staring up at Celeborn wide eyed as the elf in question adjusted his... pose, tipping his head back to perhaps catch the light better.

Lord Celeborn... wanted poetry. From him.

Gimli couldn’t decide if this was a worse or better fate than the prospect of being hunted down by a gaggle of Lothlórien guards for his trespasses of expression on their Lady.

Gimli had the training, surely, to produce further... “inspired” works, but if someone had told him that such tutelage would land his arse in such a situation he would have promptly given up the spoken word and shamed his parents by fleeing to live in the lands of Men. Weaving poetry for elves! It was unthinkable!

Shame he hadn’t been thinking when he spouted all that flowery nonsense before Galadriel herself, Gimli’s tender heart skipping a beat just at the thought of her.

Elves were nothing but trouble, one way or another!

***

When Gimli had returned to their accommodations the Hobbits were all over him, peppering him with questions rapidfire over one another. Legolas lingered somewhere nearby, seemingly interested but playing up his elven airs. Too immortal to show interest yet too elderly to resist gossip.

Boromir and Aragorn were blessedly away playing some sort of dice game; at least Men had some sense of propriety!

“Oh come on, Gimli!! What was it that the Lord wanted?” Pippin begged, yanking on his arm as Merry hung onto the other.

“I bet he was in trouble! Lord Celeborn looked fit to fuss at our Master Dwarf singing sweet nothings to his Lady Wife!” Gimli lifted the arm Merry had hold of up higher, wishing the little brat would lose his grip instead of dangling on like a furryfooted leech.

“Were you in trouble Gimli!?” Pippin very nearly shouted in his ear, making the dwarf in question cringe. “Are they going to throw you into prison like they did in old Bilbo’s stories!?”

“That was Mirkwood, where rude ol’ Thranduil rules, Pip.”

Somewhere from behind there was a stifled snort out of Legolas. Gimli was sorely tempted to toss them both like sacks of ore but he narrowly avoided going through with it, reminding himself pointedly of their youth again.

“OH, oh! Ohhh. Right you are!”

“Will you be all right, though?” The softer, polite tone was a godsend, little Master Frodo sitting across the clearing with Samwise as he dug through his rucksack for something.

“Aye, I will be.” Gimli finally said, letting his arms go slack as loose rope, Pippin and Merry shrieking as they were dropped to the ground with no warning. “I’ve just... been commissioned by Lord Celeborn for some of my work.”

The silence was deafening till Legolas finished imitating an eavesdropping fishwife and stammered out: “A commission!?”

“It’s open ended.” Gimli elaborated reluctantly, remembering the very serious tone Celeborn had when he made the order. If stone could speak... “I’m to compose for Lord Celeborn till he tires of it.”

“On a quest!?”

“We’ll be in the middle of nowhere, how does he expect you to deliver!?”

“Oh, maybe I’ll commission poetry about my escapades when we go home.” Pippin sighed out from his still flat in the grass pose, sounding rather dreamy about it while Merry and Legolas both looked at him incredulously.

In fact, Legolas looked rather jealous.

Gimli pointedly kept that thought to himself, pocketing it for later slander he’d lay upon the archer. Elves were so unbelieveably vain.

Shrugging his shoulders Gimli sighed. “He said that if it so happened to become a book of contemplations of his countenance then he would waive any incremental delivery requirements.”

“That’s generous of him.” Frodo said slowly, sounding like he was seriously thinking over the precedence of such an agreement. Sam just snorted.

“That’s one word for it.” Legolas stage muttered, turning on heel and leaving without another word about it.

The lot of them watched him go (save for Pippin, who remained daydreaming in the grass about The Ballad Of Peregrine Took, as sung by a strange, dark haired elf with short shorn hair), Gimli scratching at his temple as he tried to sort out what that all was about.

“Well.” Merry piped up, scratching the meager stubble on his chin. “It seems like Lord Celeborn isn’t the only elf with such a craving.”

“I’m going to bed.” Gimli said after a moment, having had enough of all this.

**Author's Note:**

> I love elves being stupid is basically what this fic is about.


End file.
